


To Paint the Sky

by genetic_design



Series: To Paint the Sky [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Artist Gabriel, College Student Sam, Falling In Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:18:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3684957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genetic_design/pseuds/genetic_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I need you to promise me two things. One, no morning after business, and two, don't go falling in love with me."</p><p>"That has got to be the weirdest request I have ever had."</p><p>"Sam. I'm serious. Can you do that for me?"</p><p>"I promise to never ask to wake up next to you, and to not go falling madly, deeply, chick flick in love with you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Paint the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a short one shot in response to a prompt, but I fell in love with the idea, and it really got away from me.
> 
> Prompter requested sick!Gabriel, college!Sam, and falling in love. I doubt this is what she imagined. I'm sorry!

After the third time Dean barges into Sam's bedroom pestering him to come watch _Return of the Jedi_ , Sam shoves his textbooks into his backpack and hightails it from the apartment.

"Make Cas do it," he says on his way out, shutting the door on a complaint of "you study too goddamn much." Finals week is upon him — there is no such thing as too much preparation.

Finding a quiet, peaceful place to read takes precedence over everything, especially his brother's boredom, and fifteen minutes later Sam pulls into the parking lot at the Pour House. A wave of cool air greets him when he walks inside, a welcome contrast to the heat of the late afternoon sun. It carries the richness of vanilla and coffee beans, and he smiles as he breathes in the familiar scent, sweet and slightly bitter.

To the right of the entrance stands an enormous black chalkboard. Flowing, cursive script details the seasonal beverages: pumpkin spice lattes in the fall, peppermint mochas during the winter, raspberry cappuccinos to celebrate Valentine's day. Sam has tried every item on the menu at least once over the past three years, and while he still prefers a strong drip coffee with espresso, he hasn't been disappointed by a drink yet.

Christmas lights twist around the exposed rafters overhead, giant bulbs of bright white and tiny points of soft blue that illuminate the threadbare armchairs and leather loveseats scattered throughout the shop. Wooden bookshelves line the back wall, holding a variety of paperbacks with cracked spines, worn magazines ranging from _Sports Illustrated_ to _Alternative Press_ , and a neat stack of current newspapers. A handwritten sign on one of the shelves reads 'take a book, leave a book.'

Sam slides into the back corner booth of table number 12. Vinyl crinkles as his jeans catch on the torn red fabric in the middle of the seat, and he shifts to the left another inch like he always does, so the rip no longer rests under his leg.

Pulling a textbook out of his bag, he lays it down on the napkin he spreads across the table, to prevent the cover from picking up a tacky film. He forgot to do that once when he first started coming here, and for the remainder of the semester his English book doubled as a lint roller, collecting an ungodly amount of fuzz and grime.

The Pour House is a beat up, hole-in-the-wall kind of place, with sticky tables and mismatched décor, and Sam can't imagine ever going anywhere else. He had stumbled across the coffee shop by accident on a bitingly cold day in November during his freshman year, and fallen in love with it the second he stepped through the door. Its eclectic atmosphere appealed to him, and it quickly became his home away from home; somewhere to escape to when aggravation with his roommates reached critical levels.

Behind the counter, Jo waves cheerfully at him when he catches her eye. “You’re in luck,” she says, grabbing a clean, hunter green cup from the mug holder. “I just brewed a new pot. Be over in a minute.” An upside of being a regular here; Sam never has to place an order.

The barista prepares his coffee and heads to his table. “One regular coffee, skim milk, two sugars.” Jo flashes him a wide grin as she sets the steaming drink down on the table. "So, when are you guys going to come around for another visit? Mom hasn't seen Dean and Cas in ages, she keeps bugging me about asking."

"We'll definitely be there for Dean's birthday, but before that I have no idea. I've been drowning in schoolwork for weeks, and between Dean's hours at the garage and Cas's night classes, we sometimes go days without even seeing each other. It's impossible to find the time to go out and do something fun."

Jo laughs, glancing at the medical textbook on the tabletop. “Last round of finals tomorrow afternoon, right?” Sam pulls a face, sinking down further in the booth. As if he needs that reminder.

"Yeah, but do me a favour and don’t mention the word finals to me right now. I have this terrible feeling I’m going to fail.”

“Oh, hush,” Jo admonishes. “You’re gonna do fine and you know it. You’re the smartest guy I know, Sam.” He has no idea how he became such a pessimist — although torturing himself with a pre-med programme probably has a lot to do with it — but he doubts that very much.

The soft chime of the bell hung over the café’s entrance saves him from a response. A couple walks in and sits down at a booth several tables away from Sam, laughing and chattering in a way that makes him feel a tiny bit wistful. He needs to get out more, make a few friends, or find a study partner at the very least.

 _That’s the pitiful life of a pre-med student_ , he concedes. Two parts sleep-deprived, three parts broke, and one giant part solitude.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Gotta get back to work. Good luck.” Sam nods his thanks as Jo skips off to take the new table’s order.

No more procrastination. He cracks open the thick medical text in front of him, staring down at it with a determined expression. All he has to do is make it through tonight’s cram session, not have a nervous breakdown during tomorrow’s exams — or forget everything he has learned the moment he opens his test — and he will be home free for the next twelve glorious weeks of summer.

He can do this. Probably. As long as he doesn’t panic and forget what arthrocentesis means, or dysphonia, or — oh, Jesus, what if he panics and forgets his own  _name_?

Sam tries to tone back the desperation as he flips to the correct chapter. He can do this.

 

\+ + +

 

Two hours and four cups of coffee later, Sam groans and lets his head fall forward on top of his textbook. He can’t do this. The letters started to swim across the pages thirty minutes ago, his eyes feel like bits of sandpaper scratching against his eyelids every time he blinks, and at some point he began developing a deep-rooted hatred for medical terminology.

Who decided the medial epicondyle of the humerus needed its own special term, anyway? It’s a freaking elbow bone, for crying out loud.

A deep inhale through his nose treats him to the sharp scent of ink — God, he even detests the way the words smell. Sam curses himself for deciding that going to college to become a doctor was ever a good idea. What the hell had he been thinking.

Briefly, he debates reading one more page, but his eyes throb in aching protest.

“Fuck you,” he grumbles at his textbook.

“That’s a bit hostile, don’t you think?” comes an amused reply.

Damn it. The book is talking back to him; he's finally lost it. Sam squints suspiciously at the blur of black-on-white an inch from his eyes before he realises,  _wait_ , that voice definitely came from his right. He whips his head up so fast one of the glossy pages clings to his forehead and rips right in half. That’s it, he is officially done with studying right now.

Sam slaps the book shut on the mangled page with a scowl before he glances at the end of the booth to see a man standing there. The stranger is a little on the short side — although most everyone seems short to Sam — with wide, honey coloured eyes and slicked back golden hair. He clutches a large mug of coffee topped with a ridiculous amount of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles to his chest. A crooked smile curves his mouth, like he finds Sam's lapse of sanity amusing.

“You mind?” the blond asks, gesturing at the empty side of the booth with his free hand. Before Sam can even open his mouth to protest, he sets his coffee on the table and flops down without invitation.

For such a small man, he takes up an incredible amount of room as he sprawls across the seat and gives Sam a conspiratorial wink, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at a group of teenagers in the middle of the seating area. “They’re loud. I don’t wanna sit next to them. Besides, you looked two seconds away from passing out. Thought you might enjoy a break and some stimulating conversation.”

“Uh…” is all that Sam manages to stutter out. What a brilliant response.

The man smiles again, no doubt enthralled by Sam’s conversational prowess. Reaching across the table, he nudges the textbook close enough to read the title upside down, then grimaces and slides it away with a finger.

“Pre-med? Yuck. No wonder you look like all the joy has been sucked out of your night. I tried pre-med for a year, myself. Please the family with something prestigious, you know? One semester was enough to just about drive me ‘round the bend. Needless to say, I switched to a much more worthy major my second year.”

“Um… Law?” Sam guesses, thrilled that he manages to get out an actual word this time.

The shorter man snorts as he snags several packets of sugar from the holder. “Hell no. Art, actually.” He rips open all three packets at once, promptly dumping them on top of the whipped cream. Sam’s mouth goes dry looking at the sickly sweet drink.

“So, uh. I bet your family took that real well, huh?”

“Let’s just say there were a few threats, on my dad’s part, and a lot of swearing on mine," the man says, affecting a momentary air of over-the-top innocence. Sam hides a grin in his coffee mug.

The blond scoops a bit of the sugared and sprinkled whipped cream from the top of his drink with his finger and pops it in his mouth, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "Wanna try it?”

“Um, thanks, but I’m good,” Sam says, heat rushing to his cheeks. He takes another sip of his thankfully plain coffee as the man shrugs and stirs the cream into his drink with a spoon.

After a few minutes, the awkward quiet starts to loom over Sam. He casts about in a desperate attempt to come up with something, anything, to say. Maybe it’s just him who feels odd, because the man across from him seems perfectly content to sit and drink his sugary concoction in silence.

Still, Sam has a sinking feeling his companion is about to realise how magnificently boring he is.

“My name’s Sam,” he eventually blurts out, and oh God, is that really the best he can do? His _name_?

But maybe it’s not quite as bad as he thinks, because the blond man meets his eyes with a small smile and says, “Gabriel. Nice to meet you, kiddo.”

Sam lets out a short breath of relief.

“So, Sam, anything you want to talk about? I’m an open book.” Gabriel’s mouth curves in a wry smile as he taps the medical text. “Much more interesting than this one, I promise.”

Sam doesn’t know how it happens, but he suddenly finds himself wrapped up in one of the most intense conversations he has ever had. He has always thought of himself as socially inept, and he has proven this on countless other occasions with stammered um’s and awkward pauses, but tonight… Tonight is something else entirely. Sam tells Gabriel about growing up in so many different towns that he has long since forgotten their names; of his brother Dean sacrificing his own childhood to raise Sam; of his decision to become a doctor when he was 9 years old, and how amazingly certain he is that he is going to fail his semester finals. He is the furthest thing from interesting, he knows this, but the blond man seems fascinated by Sam’s words, and every time he reaches a point where he isn’t sure what to say, Gabriel always has a follow-up question or a story of his own for Sam.

In the middle of his rambling, Sam learns a lot about Gabriel in return. Gabriel hasn’t spoken to most of his family in years, but his eyes light up when he mentions his younger sister, Anna. Apparently, Gabriel spent the majority of three years traveling all over Europe, and though several of the stories the man tell seem almost unbelievable, he paints such vivid pictures with his words that Sam can’t help but feel like he is watching it happen in front of him. Sam also learns that Gabriel has a wickedly sharp sense of humour, and he laughs so hard his stomach begins to ache.

Sam is so absorbed in everything that has just happened, he is shocked when the shorter man pulls out his cell phone and says they have talked for nearly three hours. How he managed to pull that off, Sam has no idea.

He is still wondering when Gabriel drains the last swallow of what is likely now cold coffee. The blond gently places the empty mug back on the table, stands up, and begins to rummage through his jacket pocket.

“I really hate to say that I’ve got to get going soon, but before I do-” Gabriel breaks off as he pulls his hand back out of his pocket. “Pick your poison.” He spreads out an array of coloured permanent markers on the table.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Um… do you always walk around with a pocket full of Sharpie’s?”

“Sometimes. Bathroom stall graffiti can be very inspiring, Sam.”

The taller man rolls his eyes. Yeah, he can kind of picture Gabriel keeping an assortment of markers on him for just that reason. Sam taps the Sharpie on the far right. “That one.”

“Red. An excellent choice.” Gabriel picks up the selected marker. He leans across the booth and grasps Sam’s right wrist with warm fingers. He uncaps the Sharpie with his teeth and places the tip of it against Sam’s forearm. The blond begins to write with broad, sweeping strokes. The touch is simple, yet strangely intimate, and Sam feels his heart start to beat a little faster as he looks down at his arm, at Gabriel’s fingers wrapped around it. He really hopes Gabriel won’t notice his rapidly rising pulse, but judging from the tight, quick squeeze around his wrist just before Gabriel lets go, Sam’s certain he does. The shorter man recaps the marker and taps it against where he has written on Sam’s skin.

“This is my number; I wrote it in permanent red Sharpie so it can’t be lost.” Gabriel meets the taller man’s eyes with a sly grin.

“It really was very nice to meet you, Sam. Give me a call sometime, yeah?” Gabriel does not wait for a response. For what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Sam is at a total loss for words. All he can do is watch the other man walk away from the table in surprised silence. He looks down at the numbers on his arm and realises he has never had something like this happen to him before. He glances back up and twists around to find Gabriel is at the door, turned around and pushing it open with his back.

“Hey, wait,” Sam calls out. The blond pauses with his back against the café door, eyebrows raised in askance.

“When should I call you?” A hint of red creeps up Sam’s cheeks at the question he asks. “I mean, you didn’t say…” Why is he so embarrassed? It’s a legitimate inquiry, he tells himself.

“As soon as you miss me,” Gabriel quips with a smirk.

Sam gives a shaky laugh of surprise.

“Alright. Uh, well. Have a good night, then.”

“Good night, Sam,” Gabriel says, his tone low and full of warmth. Sam watches him slip through the doorway, and turns back to face the table. He leans against the back of the booth and traces the scrawling red numbers on his forearm with a fingertip. Sam’s lips curve upwards in a small smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on [tumblr](http://the-caitastrophe.tumblr.com); we can talk about silly, oblivious, made for each other boys.


End file.
